A pensive frolic through the attics of my mind brings to fore
Fragile warm engulfing soft memories
Of a confidant, friend, idol, loved one…
The hands of my Grammy.
The jolly playdays of a warm hand on a cold day in the park.
The comforting cool hand to soothe a feverish brow.
A hand never idle, whether staving off work for mam,
Or sharing playwork of a small namesake.
They found time to wash and fold the garments lovingly placed upon us.
They were always vacant for needed hugs, tickles, and massages.
They were never raised in anger save an occasional aleatory,
“Ahra, I’ll give ye the backa me hand.”
Their final loving act was to envelop my frantic helpless hands
in a long lost lucidity.
“It’ll be all right, Love,”
Pale cold hands gripping her well-worn rosary.
An indelible childhood vision.
My Grammy’s hands.
Grammy’s Hands
A graceful meditation on memory, love, and the enduring warmth of a grandmother’s touch.
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